Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or events taking place in "Rurouni Kenshin" by Nobuhiro Watsuki. Please don't sue me. I receive no money from this fanwork, only a writer's creative satisfaction. Also, reviews are always welcomed, read and cherished, but never necessary.
Title: Kaerigake, On the Way Home
Chapter 6: Wander too far down memory lane…
Word Count: 2,700
[Total Word Count: 14,796]
Fandom: Rurouni Kenshin
Character(s): Himura Kenshin, Sekihara Tae, Sanjou Tsubame and Sagara Sanosuke.
Warning(s): Bloody memories, melancholy, violence, slight canon-storyline AU
Author: Kita Kitsune (Call me Fox!)
Post date: Sunday, September 14, 2014・平成二十六年九月十四日・日曜日
: : : : : : :
Ten years since Toba-Fushimi. Ten years since Tomoe's murder.
Himura Battousai – no, he didn't go by that name, anymore. Himura Kenshin, the name his Shisho had given him, that was who he was, now. Shakku-san had given him a sakabatou – a reverse-blade sword – after the battle at Toba-Fushimi, when Kenshin had told him he wanted to find a path to protect others that avoided killing. The first few days had been hard. Himura Battousai had never lusted for the blood of men, and Himura Kenshin had vowed to never take another life. Still, habits engrained over five years drenched in the blood of Kyoto – and before that, in learning the Hiten Mitsurugi Style – were startling when disrupted. The first time he drew his sword after becoming a rurouni, an aimless wanderer, Kenshin felt startled when blood didn't spray. It was a relief, to some extent, seeing his foe laid out on the ground before him, still breathing – only a common thief. After a moment, Kenshin became aware of the exposed nature of the alley, being just off the main street. Hastily, he grabbed the bag of money and read the name on it. Returning it with the quiet swiftness one can only manage with years of practice, Kenshin left town. He was haunted by a strange feeling of leaving a job undone, and had to resist the urge to go back and finish the thief.
It was something he and the Shinsengumi had always agreed upon; Aku, Soku, Zan – Swift Death to Evil. The Battousai inside of Kenshin loathed leaving such an evil man alive, but the Kenshin inside of Battousai was relieved at not having taken another life; at being able to use his sword as it should have always been used, to protect others and give mercy. Perhaps the thief would reform, having received kindness in an unkind world. His Shisho had no qualms about killing, but then Hiko had always done so sparingly, only when needed. His Master hadn't massacred thousands in cold, relentless efficiency the way Himura Battousai had.
With this, Kenshin had hope that he could one day atone for all the lives he had taken to make way for the peace of the Meiji Era.
With this, Battousai had the first stirrings of discontent; at being denied the base center of his very existence. Despite initially being a gentle soul, the years had hardened him, and it would take more than one spared thief to overturn the instilled murderous nature it had absorbed.
But Kenshin would try.
He entered Edo – no, wait, it was Tokyo, now – in the middle of the day, taking in the new capital. It had been ten years since he had slain a man. It wasn't that there had been a lack of close calls; of course there had. Especially in the early days, before the ban on swords had come into effect, his brazenly worn sword caused him no end of challenges. Each and every time Kenshin had to resist ending the fight the way he always had. It would be so easy to turn the blade on his sword, and strike that killing blow. He learned, too, that his favorites – the Battou-Jutsu techniques – required more power than with a regular sword, due to friction in the sheath. It was to be expected of a sakabatou, however, and after the first time he missed a foe by a few centimeters due to that friction, he compensated by working to hone his drawing, to regain the same level of speed and power a regular sword gave his strikes, naturally.
: : :
He had offered his assistance to an elderly couple who seemed to be struggling with their groceries, and they had insisted on treating him to a Western-style meal called "hot pot" at a local establishment called the Akabeko. There were a few drunk men shouting ideas about democracy in one booth, and the elderly couple tutted about them and apologized. They tried to enjoy their meal, but halfway through it Kenshin stiffened as his sixth sense kicked in, sensing a projectile approaching from behind. He dodged just in time, the ceramic bowl shattering harmlessly on the wall in front of him. The elderly couple – each seated on one side of him – stared at the ruined tableware in surprise.
A soft voice floated up from his side, and Kenshin looked down to see a young girl in the Akabeko's uniform. Her hair was in a bowl-cut, and she was apologizing for the disturbance, and asking if everyone was all right. Kenshin smiled slightly down at her, and caught from the corner of his eye the host – Tae-dono, if memory served – trying to calm down the drunken democratic supporters. He tensed, half out of his seat, as they shoved her aside, but a tall man in odd dress emerged from another booth and caught her before she fell. The elderly woman beside Kenshin commented that he was a no-goodnick, always fighting and would someday come to a bad end, just like that brazen character on his back. Kenshin watched as the democratic supporters challenged him to a fight. Fearing it would get out of hand, and not wishing for any of the men to die while he could have prevented it, Kenshin excused himself with polite gratitude from his dinner companions, and quietly followed the posturing men outside.
A crowd gathered quickly in the street as the three democratic supporters faced off with the taller man who had so chivalrously prevented Tae-san from falling. He gave his name, but Kenshin was too busy scanning the supporters for any weapons to catch it. The stiff angle of a concealed blade on one of them made him narrow his eyes at the duplicity, but another was already charging the tall man with a fist outstretched – no, a hidden dagger! But the tall man didn't flinch, and the charging man, inexplicably, howled in pain, his arm bending at a strange angle. Kenshin stared in surprise, and blinked when the tall man merely flicked his opponent's head, sending him to the ground. The soft scuff of a sword inching out of its sheath caught his experienced ears, however, and Kenshin moved quickly to press the hilt of his sword into the back of the democratic supporter intent on drawing his. Thankfully, after a few words of caution – and the sound of police whistles approaching – the group of three decided to retreat without making a bigger scene.
Kenshin watched as the tall man walked away, the 'evil' on his back unmistakably clear and pristine. What could have made him wear such a thing so proudly? He seemed an honorable man – he hadn't tried to kill his opponents, and even complained at how weak they were. Kenshin smiled to himself as he thought how this man might have fared in the Bakamatsu. Clearly, he had some innate talent, and if it had been molded in the fires of Kyoto, he might truly have become a great warrior. But he was too young – he couldn't be older than twenty – to have fought in those wars, surely. One sad truth of the Meiji Era was that men of war could no longer find work which suited their talents. Kenshin did not mind this, of course. He was glad for the peace, for women to talk and children to play in the streets without fear. Even before Tomoe, he had never enjoyed killing. He had never felt anything at all about it, actually, and had said as much to Iizuka.
Lost in his thoughts, Kenshin wasn't fully aware of the present situation until a policeman grabbed his elbow, accusing him loudly of not obeying the ban on swords. Kenshin's eyes went wide, and he tried to slip away, but soon what seemed to be an entire platoon was chasing him. Eventually, they cornered him, surrounding him on all sides, and he sighed.
"You are certainly very persistent – this one has no choice but to let you take it in."
And so, he found himself sitting in a jail cell.
: : :
Really, it was not too horrible a place to be. Granted, Kenshin missed the sunlight and walking where he pleased, but he knew this would be temporary. He had allowed himself to be captured a few times over the past decade, and had no reason to believe this would be any different. He answered the police's questions honestly, giving his name and allowing them to do what they must. Kenshin planned on slipping away one night and reclaiming his sakabatou – naturally, they had taken it from him, but despite his insistence that it couldn't kill anyone, they were still concerned with the blade-side, and had to check their information.
That night, he dreamt of the Wolves of Mibu hunting him in the streets of Kyoto. It was hellish, flames everywhere, and the points of all swords aimed at him. Kenshin cut his way through them, of course, spilling blood and feeling the rough resistance as his blade cut through cloth and flesh, muscle and bone. And, though it were his own hands, Kenshin couldn't stop it. No matter how much he hated seeing blood spill from his blade, these nightmares were borne of memories and could not be dismissed with simple rationalizing.
He woke abruptly to the sound of a voice in the cell beside him.
"Sounds like you've got some pretty rough dreams, there." It was a gruff voice, but not without that edge of compassion found in anyone who could relate to such nightmares. Feeling bereft without his sakabatou to hold as he slept, Kenshin merely allowed himself a soft 'yes'. His neighboring felon banged on the wall between them, in sympathy. "I hear ya. You're the swordsman they brought in, right? You any good?" Kenshin closed his eyes.
"This one does not enjoy fighting." He heard a scoff next to him.
"That must be a lie, if you're walking around with a sword on your hip. That's just asking for trouble, these days. What, can't let go of the old times?" Tomoe's death flashed in his memory, and Kenshin bowed his head, shadows obscuring his eyes even though his neighbor couldn't see them, anyway.
"Something like that." As if sensing the sobering atmosphere, the other felon fell quiet.
The rest of the night was spent in silence.
: : :
In the morning, Kenshin slipped quietly out of his jail cell when they brought him breakfast, knocked out the guards, and escaped out through the window, using the rooftops. The man he'd talked to the previous night was still asleep in his cell. The only thing that struck Kenshin about him was the man's back – he wore a white jacket, with the character for 'evil' brazenly showing. But it was no concern of his, and Kenshin left him where he lay. Kenshin had no doubt that once someone in the government who had known him during the Bakumatsu heard his name, they would try to recruit him for a position. He had no interest in doing something that would not directly help the people around him – it was the same as when he had been an assassin, in a sense. Kenshin was not one to stand idly by and let others suffer if he could prevent it, and, further he had no desire to be put above the people who had merely tried to survive the Bakumatsu. He, as an assassin, had no right to think himself better. He had killed hundreds of men in the five years he had served under Katsura-san. So many of the people now living peaceful lives had done nothing to deserve the suffering they had gone through. Why should he, a bringer of bloody rain and a ruiner of happiness, deserve anything more than atonement for what he had done?
His comrades wouldn't understand his reasoning. They would excuse his crimes, say it was for the good of the Revolution that he had killed those men, and try and protect him from any who would accuse him otherwise. Kenshin appreciated their sentiments, but he could not agree with them. He had killed, he must atone. The Revolution was over, and Kenshin would only raise his sword in order to contribute to or maintain the current peace. And if he never stayed in one town for too long, maybe his past would never catch up with him.
People hadn't seen much of Hitokiri Battousai, and no one had drawn him or taken his picture with a Western camera. He had been in the shadows during the entire Bakumatsu, and although rumors of his appearance were spread far and wide, only about half were correct. Some said he had a cross-shaped scar, but it varied where, some said his eyes burned like fire, some said it was his hair, and others insisted he was ten feet tall, to be so strong. Usually only after seeing his swordsmanship did people start to suspect he was no mere swordsman, but that couldn't be helped. Kenshin always left any town quickly after drawing his sword, no matter the reason, so there wouldn't be a chance for anyone who had witnessed the fight to worry over a skilled samurai in this day and age. If he left town, they wouldn't forget about him, but they wouldn't worry about him coming back.
It was best like this, but still. Tomoe had shown him he didn't have to be alone in his life, and despite the tragedy that had occurred, Kenshin still missed that quiet companionship. His Master was not one given to soft words and affection, and they were not equals. If there was anyone Kenshin could call a parent, it would be him, but Hiko would kill him if Kenshin asked to stay with him. He had run off from his lessons fifteen years ago, and even if he had not, Hiko did not have the patience to tolerate his stupid apprentice's flights of idealism. And yet, even though he wanted this, Kenshin had avoided getting too close to anyone since Tomoe. Experience had taught him that those he might have cared for were better kept at a distance than forced to deal with the too-often-deadly baggage of Kenshin's history.
As an assassin, he had lived alone, killed alone, and slept alone. He only ate with other men because Iizuka had insisted on dragging him down to the meal room, instead of quietly having his meals brought up to his room. He had been an assassin, and one of his greatest weapons was his unknown identity. Hitokiri Battousai, yes, perhaps even Himura Battousai to trusted Ishin Shishi, but never Himura Kenshin. No. The last was who he was, now, and Kenshin wasn't intent on changing it. He enjoyed how he was clearing his conscience, and even though the bloodstains on his hands would never go away, he still wanted to try and make amends for what he had done. Live by the sword, die by the sword. It was another thing the Hitokiri had shared with the Shinsengumi, and Kenshin could only imagine what Okita and Saitou would think of him, now. But they were both long dead.
He was one of the few remaining samurai from the Bakumatsu who still held a sword, much less still lived. But Kenshin couldn't rue this fact. It was better that the old ways die out, to make way for the new. He would never take an apprentice, would never pass on the Hiten Mitsurugi Ryuu. It was better for the world that the killer's sword die out, to be replaced by a wooden one that changed kenjutsu's true nature. Kenshin could never take up a wooden sword; he was too tainted to wield it correctly. There was no changing the true nature of the hitokiri that lurked at the bottom of his heart. Still, there were those who learned swordsmanship in this day and age, who could change the world for the better with their wooden swords. Kenshin hoped fervently that these future swordsmen would do so.